Mas Abdul squatted, knees against his chest, beneath a clump of tall bambu at the sawah's edge. The angin pushed creaks out of the bambu. He picked up the tahu perkedel. Its yellow juice colored the long fingernails of his right hand.

The two sisters stand in the air ahead of him. The older sister's kata come to him out of the younger's mulut, 'Moon, in months / you will be full, round rice.'

He moves into the sawah, parting the sisters as he goes. The air pushes above his knees. It was cool, but will soon become tepid as the mata hari begins its work. The lumpur wraps around his toes and sucks at his feet.

The sisters close behind him, 'Rice, you fill plates, fill / family and field.' Their mata, shades of shimmering brown, which seem to reflect, as much as match, the air the three stand in.

He uses his spade to open the dunia of the higher sawah. Air begins to move. He leans and presses into place, beneath the flow, a scrap of plastic he had carried with him.

The younger sister will take the hand of the older, a bisikan spilling from her lips,

'Family and field,
you are the world,
the whole of it is you,
the place and the people.'

---

The ordering of the Desa Cycle was crafted using sequences generated by Random.Org

disclaimer: This work does not reflect the United States Peace Corps, the United States government, nor the government of Indonesia.

|

Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.